


Our Own Side

by blueslove



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Blow Jobs, Grinding, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Making Out, Mutual Pining, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueslove/pseuds/blueslove
Summary: Gabriel knows that look.





	Our Own Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blackfig](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Blackfig).

Gabriel knows that look. It’s a look he’s seen more than he cares to admit, the flash behind a blue so deep it’s endless, and all he can offer is a solitary smile. 

Beelzebub snatches the caramel concoction from his hand—a tall, venti, Frappuccino, skinny, pumped something or other—and latches onto the straw. The angry way they sip, staring far into the distance dusted with ice, is the only communication he’ll get. Beelzebub has never been good with words, and is absolutely horrendous with any emotion aside from annoyed twitching, so Gabriel never lingers on it too long. Even if an angel’s natural instinct is to comfort, to soothe, Beelzebub will never come to him for that. 

They’re here because Beelzebub wants them to be here. They’re here so they can rant about the world and heaven and hell outside their celestial body, and to use Gabriel as a means of release—in several ways.

The smack of their lips has Gabriel’s easy, sarcastic smile faltering to a glower as they look down at the cup in disgust.

“You asked for two pumps of hazelnut, not three.”

“Be thankful I remembered it at all,” he shoots back. “These human abominations are disgusting.”

“Boo hoo.” 

Beelzebub drinks the rest of it anyway, scrunching up the plastic and throwing it on the ground as they wipe away the remnants of whipped cream. Gabriel pointedly stoops, picks the cup up, and walks the five paces to the bin but, when he turns around, Beelzebub is gone. 

Gone from eyesight, at least. The innate tingle at the back of his eyes—a built-in sensor—tells him they’re still very much here, and very much wanting Gabriel to follow. He does.

Saint James’ Park, like most things in central London, is crammed with people. It’s difficult to pick out Beelzebub on a regular, rainy day in Soho or Westminster, but here in a sea of people it’s impossible. That phrase the principality used—something about a haystack and a needle—comes to mind, as he has to rely entirely on that embedded instinct. It works, but only sort of. He finds Beelzebub underneath one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, a good fifteen minutes walk away, purposefully flicking water at passing pigeons. 

“That’s spiteful,” Gabriel says dryly, taking a seat next to them and watching the sky shimmer through a wave of bubbles. Small children are running around in front of them, bouncing on their toes to reach the biggest ones, and scraping their knees on the stone. “What did those sweet creatures do?”

Beelzebub flicks water at him instead. 

“Why am I here?” Gabriel asks after silence settles between them, both uncomfortable and comfortable simultaneously. They’ve been around each other too much for it to be anything else.

“A staged intervention.” 

“A staged intervention?”

They glare at him, and the icicles in that gaze crash onto him with the weight of a mountain. He’s never asked whether that feeling is the result of a miracle, or some juxtaposed charm leftover from when they were an angel. He hopes it’s the former for his sanity’s sake.

“I’m stressed and need a form of release.” 

“Sexual favours,” Gabriel replies in understanding, and Beelzebub recoils like he had blessed the marble underneath them. 

_ “Don’t _ say it like that, you creep.” 

“I’m saying what you’re thinking.” 

They don’t have an answer for that. A glare in luminescent blue is shot his way instead, grinding on back teeth and a thousand yard stare. To anyone else, it would be terrifying. To him, it’s liberating. 

An alleyway off the road where the crowns of the lion statues can still be seen, and Gabriel finds himself taking his time mapping the expanse of Beelzebub’s back, the caramel against his lips. They’ve never been one for taking things slow—lovemaking isn’t what they’re here for, not what they’re made for—and Beelzebub prefers the roughness of a bite. 

An angel shouldn’t be this way, let alone an archangel; consumed with lust and the beginnings of a  _ please _ on the tip of his tongue. But then he’d seen the principality and that demon, seen them clink glasses and laugh, and he’d thought maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as ineffable as they seemed. The very fabric of nature can be woven into something new, something that involves pressing Beelzebub into the damp brick and running his hands down their sides. 

They shiver, they claw at his jacket, his scarf. Mindlessly, they’re moved aside; smudged by damp and moss and stains as Beelzebub—face like thunder—reaches down and pulls at his belt, his fly. 

“Eager, huh?” Gabriel murmurs, eyes narrowing in satire, and Beelzebub grunts something unintelligible. He catches one of their wrists and pins it to the wall behind them. “What was that?”

“I  _ said _ ,” Beelzebub hisses, cheeks tinged pink as the look in their eyes rises like hot steam. “Fuck you.” 

“Only you could insult an archangel.”

“Only  _ you _ could insult—”

Their words are cut off with a sharp gasp as Gabriel purposefully leans down and bites the shell of their ear. When he pulls back, he’s pleased to see crimson burying itself under that creamy skin. 

Beelzebub’s quiet now. Rather than the constant grumbling and complaining, they’re soft and pliant under Gabriel’s fingers as he reaches up to brush a thumb over their nipple. Those icy eyes tighten, but he doesn’t miss the rasp nor the way they stretch themselves up on their toes; wanting— _ demanding _ more without explicitly saying. Gabriel clicks his tongue.

“I don’t know what you want from me unless you tell me,” he says cheerfully, allowing the sharp curve of his grin to meet Beelzebub’s cheek. The hand brushing their chest grabs suddenly, palming the soft flesh and smiling at the way that careful composure cracks. “Tell me.”

Their fist slams into the wall in temper, head thrown back away from his onslaught and meeting the same fate. They curse wonderfully at the pain, neither struggling to get away nor pushing closer. It always seems to be an internal struggle between them; a push and pull of  _ I want but won’t ask.  _

All Gabriel has to do is move back a fraction of an inch, and that clever mask shatters. 

“You,” they hiss with the deadly intensity of a viper ready to strike. If he leans away, he has no doubt that they will. “You. What else do you want me to say? Because if you think—”

“Oh, stop it.” 

Complain, complain, complain. He’s at the end of his tether listening to it all, especially when that beautiful, supple mouth can be put to better use. He leans forward and lets Beelzebub have some of that control back in a biting kiss, one that has their teeth knocking and his skin humming faintly, and then he takes it again. 

One of Beelzebub’s legs hook around his waist and that’s all the confirmation Gabriel needs to push his hips forward. There’s the catch of a gasp in his mouth and a rapidly growing hardness against his cock, and he finds that slow, sleazy smile coming back once more. How can he not revel in it? Beelzebub’s so rarely like this, so rarely accepting of what Gabriel has to give, and he drinks in each moment eagerly. 

“Shit.” 

Beelzebub’s head drops, lolling against Gabriel’s collarbone to watch their hips shift and press and mould, and he takes that chance to bury his face in that mess of black hair. Thank Heaven that awful fly was lost somewhere along the way, and he seizes the opportunity, touch-starved, at the same time he grabs Beelzebub’s other thigh and lifts them up.

There’s something about seeing them shoved against a wall with kiss bitten lips and red-tinted skin, still small enough that they can be encased in his arms. Beelzebub’s still clawing at his skin, but it’s broken between pleased huffs and the need to pull him closer. The sound is enamouring. It’s one that Gabriel can never get enough of, not when he shifts again and that quietness is broken on a choked moan. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs into their hair. Each strand is coarse and rough against his lips, because Beelzebub isn’t  _ soft _ . No matter what form, celestial or human, they’re not like anyone he’s ever met. They don’t care, and Gabriel loves it. 

“Shut up.” Their gripe against his neck turns into another bite, then lick, then suck, and Gabriel shoves his hips that little bit harder. That slow, syrupy feeling is starting to fill his lower belly, and though he can listen to Beelzebub for the rest of time, his body can’t. His body wants, but can’t have—not like this. 

His hands fall to their waist, shoving them as close to the wall as he can, grinding his hips into that warm hardness like the walls are melting, the world is falling apart in a second apocalypse. He doubts he’d notice if it did. 

But what he does notice is a sharp squeak and a hurried  _ oh my God _ from the entrance to the alleyway. 

Instinct pulls him away from that warmth, and Beelzebub screeches like a harpy as they’re dropped. Gabriel’s torn between picking up the fuming mess at his feet and staring like a deer in the headlights down the alleyway, where a group of—

Where a group of  _ tourists _ are staring at them like they’re in a petting zoo. 

Ah.

“Put your dick away, you idiot!” Beelzebub bursts out, roughly shoving him down the opposite end of the alleyway and ducking their head as they follow. It takes a moment for Gabriel to come to himself and, when he does, he hurriedly stuffs his hand down his pants. 

“They were watching,” he wheezes, dazed, blindly chasing after the shadow of Beelzebub—blushing a violent crimson—as they dart down to the dead end and rest their palms flat against the brick. Gabriel tries not to notice how heavily they’re breathing. “Come now, it could’ve been worse—”

Beelzebub whirls, a long, slender finger jabbing him in the chest. “You. Shut up. This is your fault.”

_ “My _ fault?” The incredulousness isn’t lost, even when he catches their wrist and places a kiss to the inside of it. It’s ripped away a second later.  _ “You _ approached  _ me.” _

“ _ You _ decided you wanted to  _ screw _ in an  _ alleyway!” _

It takes all the patience of an archangel to roll his eyes and turn away. It’s then that he really notices how much of a mess he is; scarf crooked, coat torn from the sharpness of Beelzebub’s claws, and he has no doubts there’s a trail of bruises up his neck and along his collarbone. 

He miracles his clothes to perfection, but keeps the bruises. Gabriel kind of likes the reminders. 

When he finally turns back, Beelzebub is leaning against the brick again, arms crossed, staring at a few trash bags scattered across the gravel. They haven’t cleaned themselves up yet, still a debauched mess with red-rimmed eyes. That composure is coming back, and it makes Gabriel’s chest lurch. 

“Are you upset?”

Beelzebub doesn’t answer, nor do they blink. He knows it’s just defence. 

With a low sigh, he comes back over, pressing a kiss to the top of Beelzebub’s head, then their shoulder, and then their hip as he slides down to his knees. Only then do their eyes flicker, confusion in the length of that ocean, until Gabriel palms at the still-prominent tent between their legs. The only indication they’re listening is the sharpness of an inhale.

“Let me make it up to you,” he mutters, working at their belt, waistband, the underwear underneath. “You’re too pretty to be angry.”

The stiffness of their skin melts under Gabriel’s touch, each rub of his thumb against their sharp hip bones when their cock finally— _ finally _ —springs free. It’s rare for Beelzebub to settle on one anatomy during sex, or when he has them shoved up an alley wall with the breath knocked from their lungs, but this is easier. It makes him wonder if that was what they were secretly hoping for all along.

“Getting caught did it for you?” He asks, running his tongue over his lips before sliding his fingers around them. The slickness of precum lets him drag his hand a few times, but his focus wavers at Beelzebub’s belated stutter.

“What in Hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Gabriel decides not to bother correcting their language, and instead sends a long, clean lick to the tip. He smiles when Beelzebub’s shiver runs through them like the start of an earthquake.

“It  _ means _ ,” he continues when he turns his head to nose at the velvety skin, “I think you like getting caught. You’re still aroused.” 

“Don’t say that word. It doesn’t mean I— _ fuck _ .” 

Gabriel really can’t be bothered to listen. Not when he has someone so gorgeous, so sweet and smelling of sugar and spice as he slides his lips over the head and swirls his tongue. He knows what to do—he knows what feels good—and Beelzebub’s hand in his hair is reassurance of the best kind. 

The sweetness that floods his tongue and nose and eyes is such a contrast to when Beelzebub is playing Prince. It’s all mold and death and destruction, the Lord of the Flies at their best, but here—when it’s just them and damp clinging to their skin—Beelzebub is… Beelzebub. Not a demon, not a Prince, not anything but themself. 

“What are you  _ grinning _ for,” they gasp, and he lifts his eyes to meet the hooded, dilated black swarming that bright blue. 

A sharp suck is enough to cut that off, and Beelzebub’s curse and the rough shift of their hips makes Gabriel’s smile widen. 

It doesn’t take long until Beelzebub’s gasping and grabbing fistfuls of his hair, and Gabriel simply relaxes his throat and lets them fuck his mouth all they please. His hands only come up to grip their hips when they finally let out a broken moan, and thick, hot spurts slide down his throat as Beelzebub trembles with effort. Only then does he allow himself to slide off with a crude pop, wiping away the remnants of cum and drool around his lips as he takes in that red face, those closed eyes. The remnants of satisfaction scattered in their expression.

“It’s a good thing we don’t need to breathe,” he says pointlessly, and Beelzebub gives him the death stare.

“Do you ever shut up?”

With one last kiss to their hip, Gabriel stands. At some point he’d miracled his own hard-on away (he only needs to report that to himself, so he can get away with something slightly selfish), and when he stands he’s pleased to see that there aren’t any traces of his activities. Well, aside from the mess of his hair from Beelzebub’s violent pulling.

“I just got down on my knees for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

Now Beelzebub frowns, staring somewhere past him as they rearrange their underwear, trousers, belt. “I don’t remember angels being such wimps about thanks.”

Gabriel’s face drops. Something hard settles in his chest, something strung tight and hollow. He swallows.

“Do we have to keep relating it back to angels and demons?”

They stare at him. “That’s what we are. You can’t suck my dick and expect me to forget that we’re on opposite sides.”

_ We’re on  _ our _ side. _ He remembers that. For the first time, he thinks he understands it. The feeling in his throat thickens, and he turns—

Only for Beelzebub to catch his hand. 

“What’s your problem?”

Gabriel sighs. “If we’re going to keep this up, can we at least pretend we’re not mortal enemies? It’s old news.”

He says it in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. It’s that principalities fault; before the apocalypse, before that demon, he’d never have entertained the idea of sleeping with the enemy, of enjoying companionship like a human. He’s an archangel, that’s not when he’s here to  _ do _ .

And now look where he is, caught up in this mess and rethinking every thought. 

Beelzebub’s unnaturally silent and, when he looks over his shoulder, their expression is pensive. He wonders briefly if they had the same thoughts.

“Fine.” They let go of his hand, cross their arms over their chest. “Fine, we can—pretend. I suppose.”

That hollowness dissipates in a second. Gabriel feels a telltale smile at his lips once more, and the iciness in those eyes turn to a clear blue sky. He has nothing more to say, so he nods.

“Until next time.” Then, he adds—“Beelzebub.”

Beelzebub stares hard at him, then turns away. Before they melt into the brickwork, he hears it:

“Gabriel.”

He has no doubts that, if it worked, his heart would be beating like a jack rabbit.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for part of a secret santa exchange on a discord server I'm in! This is the first time I've written something Good Omens related, and I have to say, I'm kind of pleased!
> 
> My giftee gave me a variety of prompts but, like the vanilla person I am, I went with the vanilla option and chose getting caught! Hope you enjoy, [Blackfig!](https://twitter.com/Blackfig_)
> 
> To the world!
> 
> Twitter @ charlsteas


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